Chapter 6: Shower Reckoning
She smiled, dazed and ruined, and nuzzled into the hard plane of his chest. The scent of him—sweat, sex, and his particular clean saltiness—wrapped around her like a blanket. His arms tightened around her, a wordless possession, before he shifted. In one smooth motion, he stood, cradling her limp body against him, and carried her from the bed.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of cool, veined marble and polished chrome. He set her gently on the broad, cold countertop, her bare skin pebbling in the air-conditioned chill. Without a word, he turned to the deep, sunken tub, twisting the golden taps. A rush of steaming water began to thunder into the basin. He poured in a generous stream of lavender-scented bath salts from a crystal jar, followed by a silky oil that smelled of sandalwood and vanilla. The air grew thick with the humid, calming perfume.
Fernando turned, ready to help her into the water. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, silent rush.
She had stripped her torn dress away. She stood facing the vast, gilt-framed mirror, her back to him, utterly naked in the clinical light. His eyes cataloged the damage with a sinking, cold horror.
Her ass bore the stark, red imprints of his hands, the fingers clearly delineated in angry welts. A litany of fingerprint bruises bloomed like storm clouds across the backs of her thighs, the elegant wings of her hips, the delicate span of her waist. He had held her with the brute force he used to wrench a steering wheel, and her skin had documented every crushing grip.
He shifted his stance, his own reflection joining hers in the glass, allowing him to see her front. The sight was worse.
Her breasts and chest were a canvas of violence. Mottled purple and blue suck marks covered the tender swells, a grotesque map of his mouth’s desperate claim. But it was the bites that made his stomach twist. Vicious, crescent-shaped wounds, some broken and scabbed, others blushing a deep, ugly red. The worst of them sat at the juncture of her neck and shoulder—a deep, savage puncture, ringed by bruising so dark it was nearly black. Dried blood, rust-brown, stained the edges.
He waited for the revulsion to dawn on her face. For the tears, the shock, the dawning comprehension of the monster he was. He braced for it, the guilt a lead weight in his gut.
Instead, Isabella tilted her head, studying her reflection with a soft, curious focus. Her lips were slightly parted. Slowly, she brought her fingers up to the worst bite, the one at her neck. She traced the broken skin with a feather-light touch, a whisper of a caress over the ruin. A small, pained gasp escaped her, but her expression didn't change. It was one of profound, almost reverent concentration.
A low, happy hum vibrated in her throat.
Her fingers trailed away, dancing over the constellation of bruises on her breasts. She grazed a particularly dark suck mark, her nipple pebbling tightly under her own touch. She traced the arc of a bite on her ribcage. But her gaze, dark and warm in the mirror, kept drifting back. Her fingers always returned, magnetized, to that deepest mark on her neck. She pressed slightly, testing the tenderness, and a shiver ran through her, her eyes slipping half-closed. She didn’t see vandalism. She saw a masterpiece. His masterpiece.
His masterpiece. The word echoed in his skull, a taunt that tasted of bile. What did that make him? The canvas didn’t look proud; it looked ravaged. It looked in pain. He had to say something, to break the spell of her eerie, quiet admiration. He had to see her eyes.
“Isabella.” Her name left him not as a summoning, but as a test. It was a cautious, fragile sound in the steam-filled room.
She blinked slowly, her gaze lifting from the ruined skin of her neck to find his in the mirror’s reflection. The dazed smile didn’t fade; it softened, becoming something more intimate. “Hmm?”
He couldn’t look at the bruises anymore. He closed the distance in two strides, his bare feet silent on the marble. He pressed the full, solid length of his front against the heated skin of her back, his arms coming around to cage her against the counter. He buried his face in the wild tangles of her hair, inhaling the scent of sex and sleep that clung to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words cracking against her scalp. “Christ, Bella, look at you. I…” He swallowed hard, his thumbs stroking a frantic, soothing rhythm over the brutal handprints on her hips. “I was an animal. I lost control.”
She leaned back into him, her head tilting to rest against his shoulder. Her eyes drifted shut, that soft smile still playing on her swollen lips. She brought her hand up, her fingers finding his where they gripped her hip. She laced them together, pressing his palm more firmly into the bruise there.
“I love them,” she murmured, her voice thick with a sleep-rough sincerity that stunned him. “They’re so pretty.”
He lifted his head, staring at their joined reflection with something like dread. “Pretty?” The word was a scoff, hollow and pained. He shook his head, his nose brushing her temple. “Belladita, no. I was too rough. I hurt you.” He said it plainly, needing her to hear the truth in it.
She turned then, a fluid movement within the circle of his arms. Her hands came up, cool palms framing his stubbled jaw. The morning light carved the exhaustion and worry on his face into sharp relief. She pressed her naked body flush against his, the evidence of his rough night’s work now pressed between them. He could feel every heated bruise, every tender mark.
“I want to be the place you don’t have to hold back,” she said, her voice low and fiercely clear. Her eyes held his, no trace of the earlier daze, only a burning certainty. “Your press conferences, your meetings, the fucking cameras… you wear that mask. I want this.” She took one of his hands and guided it to the worst bite on her neck, forcing his fingertips to feel the raised, broken skin. “I want the real you. The one underneath. I want to be your good girl.”
A groan tore from deep in his chest, part agony, part surrender. He crushed his mouth to hers, a kiss that was deep and slow and tasted of salt and forgiveness. He poured every unspoken apology, every twisted strand of his need, into the meeting of their lips. When he finally broke away, breathing raggedly, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You are my good girl,” he breathed, the words a vow etched in the steam between them. “My only girl.” He kissed her again, softer this time. “Now let me take care of you, mi amor. Let me wash you. Let me clean your bruises.”
She nodded, a small, happy movement. Her smile was radiant, transforming her battered face. “Okay.”
He lifted her easily, her arms winding around his neck as he cradled her against his chest. He carried her the few steps to the enormous tub where the water swirled, deep and opaque with silky oils. The scent of lavender and sandalwood wrapped around them. He stepped over the high lip, sinking them both into the blistering heat with a hissed intake of breath.
The water enveloped them, a liquid embrace. He settled against the sloped back, drawing her down to settle between his legs, her back against his chest. She melted into him with a sigh that was pure relief, her head lolling back onto his shoulder.
For a long moment, they just existed. The silence was a living thing, filled with the gentle lap of water and the slowing of their hearts. His hands floated up, skimming the surface, then drifted down to her shoulders. He began to work the tight muscles there, his skilled fingers finding the knots of tension born from stress and his own forceful handling.
She moaned, the sound vibrating through his bones. “God, that’s good.”
He reached for a soft, sea-sponge and a bar of white, unscented soap. He worked up a thick, gentle lather in his palms. Starting with her uninjured shoulders, he began to wash her. The sponge moved over her skin in slow, careful circles, wiping away the dried salt of sweat and tears, the sticky evidence of their earlier coupling.
His touch was a liturgy. He washed her arms, lifting each one to carefully clean her armpits, the sensitive insides of her elbows. He soaped her back, his fingers tracing the line of her spine with a reverence that felt foreign in his hands. He guided her forward slightly to rinse the suds away, the clean water streaming in rivulets down the valleys of her back.
When he turned her gently in his lap to face him, the water sloshing around their waists, the sight of her front in the clear light nearly undid him again. The bruises looked even more vivid against her water-beaded skin. He said nothing. He just took more soap and began.
He lathered her neck, avoiding the broken skin of the bites with an almost clinical care. He washed her collarbones, the hollow of her throat. His hands, so capable of inflicting violence, were impossibly tender as they moved over the damage. He soaped her breasts, cupping their full weight, his thumbs brushing lightly over the dark, mottled marks his mouth had made. Her nipples hardened instantly under his touch, a reflex she couldn't control.
A soft sound escaped her, half-sigh, half-moan. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her cheeks. “Nando,” she whispered.
“Shhh,” he murmured, rinsing her clean. “Let me.”
He moved lower, his soapy hands gliding over the swell of her stomach, the delicate dip of her navel. He traced the faint, silvery lines of childhood scars he’d never noticed before. He washed her hips, his thumbs digging into the muscle where he’d held her down, a therapeutic pressure this time. He moved to her thighs, cleansing the long, elegant lines, his touch lingering on the fingerprint bruises there.
His hand drifted inward, toward the apex of her thighs. The water here was clouded, fragrant. He paused, his soapy fingers hovering just above the soft, dark curls. He looked at her face, a question in his eyes. Her own eyes opened, dark pools of trust and want. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
He gently parted her folds with one hand. With the other, he used the sponge, soft and dripping, to clean her there. He washed away the last, dried traces of his release, the slick evidence of her own pleasure. He was meticulous, gentle, his touch clinical and yet profoundly intimate. She was pliant in his hands, her breath coming in short, quiet hitches as the sponge brushed over her most sensitive flesh.
He rinsed her thoroughly, cupping his hands to pour warm, clear water over her stomach, between her legs. When he was done, he discarded the sponge. He simply held her, her slick, clean skin pressed against his chest in the cooling water. His own arousal, a constant, low hum in his veins, pressed insistently against the small of her back. He ignored it. This wasn’t about that.
He reached for a small, white towel dipped in the bathwater. He wrung it out and brought it, warm and damp, to the worst bite on her neck.
He wrung it out and brought it, warm and damp, to the worst bite on her neck. His touch was feather-light, a barely-there pressure as he dabbed at the dried blood. He rinsed the cloth, wrung it again, and repeated the process, his brow furrowed in absolute concentration. Each dab was a silent apology, a reverent erasure of the violence he had authored on her skin.
He reached for a small bottle of antiseptic from the ledge, tipping a clear liquid onto a fresh corner of the towel. “This will sting,” he warned, his voice low.
She didn’t flinch. She just watched his face, her eyes wide and trusting, as he brought the cloth to the broken skin. A sharp hiss escaped her lips as the antiseptic bit into the wound, but she held perfectly still. He blew softly on the area, cooling the burn, his breath a gentle ghost over the damp skin. He then applied a thin layer of antibiotic ointment with his fingertip, the gesture so clinical and tender it cracked something open in his chest.
Finished, he tossed the cloth aside. He simply looked at her, water droplets catching in her lashes, the brutal marks standing in stark relief against her vulnerability. The silence stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said.
Then he pulled her into him, one arm banding around her lower back, the other hand cradling the back of her head. He crushed her against his chest, her wet skin sliding against his. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the clean scent of soap and her.
“Mi vida,” he whispered into her damp hair, the words trembling. “My brave, beautiful girl.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, then her cheekbone, his lips soft and lingering. He kissed the unhurt corner of her mouth, then finally her lips, a chaste, closed-mouth press that held a world of feeling. “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he murmured against her mouth. “You are perfect. You are everything.”
She melted into him, her arms winding around his neck, her body going pliant. A single tear escaped, tracking through the dampness on her cheek. He kissed it away, his lips salty. “Don’t cry,” he breathed, kissing her eyelids. “My sweet Bella. My good, good girl.”
The words poured out of him, a quiet, desperate stream. He praised her patience, her clever mind, the way she handled the vultures from the press. He whispered about her smile, her laugh, the way she organized his world without him ever having to ask. He told her she was strong, she was kind, she was the only real thing in the whole goddamn circus of his life. He kissed every inch of her face between phrases, his lips worshipful.
Her tears came freely then, silent and warm against his skin. She wasn’t crying from pain. She was crying from the sheer, shocking force of being seen, of being cherished, by this man who wielded his intensity like a weapon. She turned her face, capturing his lips with hers. The kiss was deep, slow, and tasted of salt and forgiveness.
His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, leaving a trail of fire on her water-slick skin. He gripped her thighs and hauled her up, maneuvering her in the water until she straddled his lap. The movement made the water slosh over the rim of the tub. Her knees found purchase on the slippery porcelain beside his hips.
He was fully, thickly hard against her stomach. The tender moment shattered, reforming into something hungry and urgent. She rocked against him, the soaked, curly hair at the apex of her thighs rubbing along the length of his cock. A ragged moan tore from his throat. His hands, so gentle moments before, dug into the soft flesh of her ass, fingers pressing into the lingering bruises.
“You feel that?” he growled, his voice raw. “You feel how hard you make me? Even after everything.” He thrust his hips upward, grinding himself against her slick folds. “Even when I’m a fucking animal.”
“Yes,” she gasped, her head falling back. Her wet hair trailed in the water. She rocked against him, the friction exquisite, the water making every movement a silken slide. “I feel you. I want you.”
He reached between them, his hand sliding through the water. His fingers found her, parted her, and thrust two inside without ceremony. She was slick and hot and tight, clenching around his probing digits. A guttural sound of pleasure rumbled in his chest. “So wet,” he murmured, his lips against her throat, avoiding the fresh ointment. “So wet for me, even now. Look at you.”
He pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb finding her clit and circling with a firm, delicious pressure. Her hips jerked, seeking more. The water lapped around them. “Please, Nando,” she begged, her voice high and strained. “I need you inside. Now.”
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. The vulgarity of the act made her cunt pulse with empty need. He gripped his cock, positioning the broad head at her entrance. His other hand gripped her hip, his thumb pressing into a bruise.
He didn’t thrust up. He pulled her down.
He guided her, his strength controlling her descent, until she was impaling herself on him, inch by agonizing inch. The water buoyed her, allowing a slow, devastating slide. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as he filled her, stretching her, the burning ache of the previous night blossoming into a deep, full pleasure. When she was fully seated, he held her there, fully speared, letting her feel the complete, stuffed sensation.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, her inner muscles fluttering around him. “Oh, god.”
“Move,” he commanded, his voice tight. “Ride me. Show me how much you want it.”
She obeyed, lifting herself almost off him before sinking back down, a slow, water-weighted rhythm. He watched her, his eyes dark pools of hunger, his hands on her hips guiding the pace. Soon, she found a faster cadence, her body slapping against his in the water, the sound wet and obscenely loud in the tiled room. Her breasts, marked and beautiful, bounced with each motion.
He let her set the pace for a while, let her take her pleasure from him. He watched the concentration and ecstasy on her face, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip. Then his control snapped. With a fierce groan, he took over, his hands locking onto her hips like vices. He began pistoning up into her, driving deep from below, fucking up into her with hard, lung-emptying thrusts that stole her breath.
The water churned around them, spilling over the sides in great waves. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body bowed back. “Right there!” she screamed. “Oh, god, right there, don’t stop!”
Her orgasm tore through her, a silent, convulsing wave that made her entire body seize. Her cunt clenched around him in rhythmic, milking pulses, a tight, wet fist. The sight of her coming, the feel of it, destroyed the last shred of his restraint.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and held her down, grinding against her as his own release ripped through him. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, as he emptied himself deep inside her, his hips jerking with each pulse.
They collapsed together in the cooling water, a tangle of spent limbs and heaving chests. He kept her pressed close, her face nestled in the hollow of his neck. His hands, now gentle again, soothed up and down her back.
The water grew still. The only sound was their synchronized breathing, slowing, calming. He nuzzled her hair, his lips brushing her ear. “Te quiero,” he whispered, the words foreign and terrifying on his tongue. I love you.
She didn’t reply. She just tightened her arms around him, her whole body a silent, perfect answer.
She just tightened her arms around him, her whole body a silent, perfect answer. They stayed like that in the cooling water until their fingertips pruned and the steam vanished from the air. He finally stirred, his muscles protesting the porcelain hardness.
He finally stirred, his muscles protesting the porcelain hardness. The water had gone tepid, a bland soup of oils and their own spend. He shifted, intending to lift her out, to end the silent communion.
She kissed him then, a sleepy, sated brush of her swollen lips against his. Her breath was a warm ghost against his mouth. “Te amo,” she whispered back, the words soft and sure as a heartbeat.
His entire world narrowed to the feel of her breath on his skin. He began to pull out of her, a gentle separation.
A sharp, distressed whine cut the quiet. Her legs, which had been loosely hooked around his hips, locked like a vice. Her face crumpled, tearful and petulant. “No,” she pleaded, her voice thick. “Don’t. Please, stay.”
Her inner muscles clenched around him, a desperate, wet grip. “I want you to stay,” she whispered, her eyes searching his, shiny with new tears. “I feel empty when you’re not inside me. I want to keep it. I want to keep you.”
She rocked her hips minutely, a subtle, claiming movement. “I love how full I feel. Please, Nando.”
He stared at her, at the raw need etched on her bruised, beautiful face. The realization was a physical blow: he could deny her nothing. Not this. Not ever. The ferocity of his want to keep her safe, to keep her happy, was a new and terrifying law of gravity.
A low, rough chuckle escaped him. He pressed his forehead to hers. “We’ll turn into fish,” he murmured, his lips quirking. “Pruney, ridiculous fish.”
She didn’t smile. She just watched him, waiting, her body holding his captive.
“Alright,” he conceded, his voice a sigh of surrender. “We get out. You let me dry you. You let me put lotion on every single mark.” His thumb brushed the worst bite on her neck. “I take care of what I did. And then,” he promised, his gaze darkening, “I will fill you again. I will give you more. I will keep you stuffed so full of me you’ll feel it for days.”
Her breath hitched, a spark of desperate hope in her eyes. “Promise?”
“I promise, mi vida.”
“Swear.”
“I swear on my life,” he said, utterly serious.
She held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a small, decisive nod. The tension in her legs released. “Okay.”
He lifted her, water streaming from their bodies, and stepped out onto the bathmat. He snatched a thick, warmed towel from the rack and wrapped her in it, rubbing her arms briskly before bundling her up. He led her, trailing water, back into the bedroom.
The morning light was stronger now, unforgiving. It showed every detail of the wreckage: the rumpled, stained sheets, her clothes in a torn heap, the silence where his phone was undoubtedly buzzing with a world’s demands.
He sat her on the edge of the bed. He fetched another towel and dried himself with rough, efficient strokes before kneeling at her feet. He started there, patting her feet dry, then working up each calf, his touch firm and thorough. He blotted the water from the bruises on her thighs, her hips. He towel-dried the curls between her legs with a startling, gentle delicacy.
He rose, guiding her to stand. He unwrapped the main towel and slowly dried her back, her front. He paused at each injury, dabbing, never rubbing. When she was dry, he reached for a bottle of unscented, therapeutic lotion from his own travel kit.
Squeezing a pearl-white dollop into his palm, he warmed it between his hands. He started at her shoulders again, massaging the cream into her unmarked skin with slow, circular presses of his thumbs. He worked down her arms. When he reached her chest, his breath caught.
He applied the lotion to the bruised landscape with a touch so light it was almost air. He smoothed it over the dark blossoms on her breasts, his fingertips tracing their edges as if memorizing their shapes. He took extra care with the broken skin, applying a fresh dab of ointment first. His jaw was tight, his focus absolute. This was penance. This was worship.
She stood motionless, her eyes closed, her head tilted back. A single tear escaped, trailing silently through the lotion he’d just applied to her cheek. He kissed it away without breaking rhythm.
He worked the cream into the handprints on her ass, kneading the stiffened muscle beneath. He coated the fingerprint bruises on her waist and hips. He knelt again, lotioning her thighs. He was thorough, obsessive, leaving no mark unattended.
Finished, he looked up at her. She was glowing, oiled and tended, a masterpiece of damage and care. He stood, cradling her face. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a dark, promising rasp. “My turn.”
He laid her back on the messy sheets, the scent of sex and lavender rising around them. He nudged her legs apart, his eyes fixed on her glistening, lotion-slicked skin. He leaned down, but not to kiss her mouth. He pressed his face between her thighs, his tongue laving a broad, flat stripe through her folds.
She jerked, a sharp cry tearing from her. “Oh! Nando…”
“I promised you more,” he growled against her sensitive flesh, his breath hot. “I keep my promises.”
His tongue dove deep, fucking into her with short, firm strokes. He could taste himself, layered with her own clean, musky flavor. It drove him wild. He ate her with a focused hunger, his hands pinning her hips to the bed. His tongue found her clit and circled it, ruthless and precise.
She came apart quickly, her second orgasm of the morning ripping through her with shocking force. She screamed, her back bowing off the mattress, her hands fisting in his damp hair. He drank her down, lapping at her pulsing flesh until she was a sobbing, wrung-out mess.
He moved up her body, his own need a painful, throbbing weight. He didn’t enter her immediately. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against her swollen, sensitive lips. He looked into her dazed, tear-filled eyes.
“You’re mine,” he stated, the words a low vibration in his chest.
“Yours,” she gasped, her hips lifting in silent supplication.
He sank into her in one deep, smooth thrust, reclaiming the space he had only just left. She was so wet, so impossibly tight and hot around him. A guttural, satisfied sound erupted from him. He set a deliberate, deep rhythm, each stroke a languid possession. This wasn’t about frenzy. This was about proof.
He fucked her slowly, deeply, his eyes holding hers. He watched every flicker of pleasure, every wince of lingering soreness. He adjusted his angle, seeking the spot that made her eyes roll back. He found it, and her mouth fell open in a silent ‘O’.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his pace relentless. “Take it all. Keep it. It’s yours.”
Her third climax built like a slow tide, overwhelming her senses. She chanted his name, a broken mantra, as the waves crashed over her. Her internal muscles clenched around him in rhythmic, squeezing pulses, a silken fist milking him relentlessly.
It tore his own release from him. With a shout that was pure triumph, he drove into her one final time, his body locking as he pulsed deep inside her, filling her just as he’d promised. He collapsed atop her, careful of her bruises, still buried to the hilt.
He nuzzled her neck, avoiding the wounds, his breath ragged. “Full?” he mumbled against her skin.
She hummed, a sound of pure, sated contentment. Her arms curled around him, holding him inside. “So full,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
They lay like that, joined, as the morning sun climbed higher and the phone in the other room began to ring again.